Mallorn leaf
by Lily Ardellian
Summary: One night in a forbidden romance between a lady of Mirkwood and a half-elven warrior


_Disclaimer: I hold no ownership other than that of my characters, the unnamed Elven Lady of Eryn Lasgalen and Firohir Peredhil._  
  
  
The elven warrior jumped off his horse as soon as he was under the cover of the mellyrn of Lothlorien. He replied to a bird's whistle with a short burst of his own voice, somewhat less sweet. He wore the garb of hunters and a wolf pelt across his shoulders.  
Another elf came to meet him from the trees above where the watchers were lurking.  
"I greet thee, March Warden of Lothlorien. I bring news of the East." The second elf remained silent for moments.  
"And I greet thee, Firohir Peredhil. What brings you to the fair woods?" the March Warden asked, leading the way deeper between the golden trees. Despite his Elven calm, he was shaken. Not often did the Peredhil come to Lothlorien. Each of his visits was omen of battles with fell creatures from the will of the Enemy. The Lothlorien warrior could not help wonder what they would face this time. 

After conversing with the Lady of the Woodland Realm, Firohir Half-elven headed for the talan that had been his since he had first entered Caras Galadhon, almost 30 years before. It was located deep in the woods, a place where few Elves dwelt. He felt refreshed, having been able to wash after his long ride.  
Despite his absence, it was still in perfect condition and waiting for him. He pushed the soft material that hung in the frame of the door and walked in. Everything was in its former place, as he remembered it, down to the heavy volumes of lore he had been perusing before his departure.  
  
A leaf attracted his attention, shining silver in the moonlight. He bent to pick it and as his fingers brushed against it, he felt the cold kiss of a blade against his neck. Time slowly trickled by as he pondered his options. The blade was held firmly but with a steady hand that did not slip. Firohir knew he did not have a chance to disarm the opponent before he made away with his life.  
"You are late." said a soft voice somewhere near his ear. "So late."  
The blade lifted and he turned, straightening up as the sword returned to its sheath. Before him stood an Elven woman, clad in the clothes of the Mirkwood archers. Her cloak, he knew, was dark green and blended in the night. Her dark hair was pulled back and braided, held together with a pin shaped in mithril as a mallorn leaf. It did little to conceal the point of her ears and the whiteness of her skin, shining in the starlight.  
Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword. He risked a glance at her face and found her eyes and mouth set in a look of anger.  
  
She had not changed, untouched like her kin by the cruel ages of Middle Earth. Her dress was the same that she wore long ago when he had first stepped under the shade of Eryn Lasgalen. The same as when he had pledged himself to her as Knight.  
"_Arwenamin._" he said, dropping on one knee. "I did not know of your return."  
"Nor would I have of yours if Haldir o Lorien had not sought me out. I did not believe Eryn Lasgalen would be so painful to you that you would forfeit its halls for all ages."  
She extended a hand towards him. "Rise, Peredhil, and honour your oath."  
He took it with wonderment and kissed the palm gently. She made no movement to retrieve it.  
He placed kisses on her forearm, following a path remembered only in unconscious dreams towards her shoulder, removing armour as he went. He reached her throat and still she had not moved.  
Firohir's hand moved to unclasp the mithril mallorn leaf that held her cloak. The brooch was similar in fashion to that of Lorien's guards. He faltered. Had she given her heart to another? Then the answer was clear. The March Warden of the Golden Woods. Oft had he seen the brooch closing his cloaks in battle and when he guarded the woods.   
"You were long gone, Peredhil. Too long." She looked at him with her clear eyes, searching his face. Resolution set on his features and he unclasped the brooch, letting the cloak fall at their feet. Underneath, she had not been wearing the archer's traditional attire but a long white dress, woven of silken thread. He took the scabbard from her hand and set it on the table.  
  
"_Amin hiraetha, melamin._" He whispered, kissing the soft skin of her neck. His elvish is halting, as though he had not used it for a long time. She was warm against him and her skin responded to his touch as it had done almost a lifetime ago.  
Firohir picked her up in his arms and laid her on his bed, sitting down beside her. She smiled and placed her hand on his cheek. He lay down, his head on her middle, listening to the faint beating of her heart.  
The shadows of the night grew short. It was nearing the middle of the night when he felt her stir beneath him. He growled inquiringly. She whispered something he could not hear, despite his Elven hearing. Firohir looked up at her and was silent with what he saw.   
  
She was faintly shining in the moonlight and her hair had come undone, framing her face with dark tresses. He felt a strange stirring inside him and placed his hands against her sides, kissing his way upwards, past her breasts to her neck and finally her mouth.  
  
Wandering his hands towards her back, he unlaces the dress and takes it from her body. She does not resist or make a sound, other than her regular breathing. Her eyes are filled with starlight as she watches her warrior undressing her. His soft kisses on exposed parts of her skin, rivalling the soft touch of night air. Tomorrow, she leaves for Eryn Lasgalen, not to return. Tonight, she will give him what he desires. What they both desire.  
She pushes him back, willing him down. He yields and she is soon straddling him, pressing her intimate parts against him. His hands find their way to her waist, holding her in place. She can feel him against her, hard like the wood of a mallorn. She bites her lips as he guides himself into her.  
They move together, taking their time in this, banishing the morning to a distant thought. He takes her gently at first then forgets this as she starts moving on him. A sudden movement on her part and they tumble to the floor, with her underneath. Firohir makes to stop, make sure she is unharmed but her ankles lock against his back securing him in place.  
Conscious thought eludes him as he starts thrusting into her, hard. She shudders in release and his howl reverberates in the woods as he finds his.  
  
When stillness settled on their entwined forms on the floor of the talan, they realised what had just passed. Firohir makes to speak but her hand on his lips stills his tongue.  
"Do not say anything, do not break the spell yet." She whispers in her native language.  
"_Amin mela lle_. Always will." He whispers back wishing the morning never to come. She smiles at him, drawing him close. His eyes closed, sleep finally beating down his weary senses. Long does she remained unsleeping, until at last her mind wandered the paths of the Elves.

Dawn came and the golden light reflected on a thousand leaves shone on the face of Firohir Peredhil, alone in his talan. He opened his eyes and looked around at the room. It was as yesterday, familiar and devoid of any other presence. That knowledge clung at the corner of his awareness until it roused him from his rest, alarmed. He rushed outside.  
"_Melamin!_" he shouted out. It was in vain.  
Only the quiet life of the woods greeted him. He looked at his feet. It had been nothing but a dream. He stepped back under the curtain, only to pause, staring at the floor.  
There in the golden sunlight, a hairpin lay on the floor, mithril shining gaily. He picked it up and placed in on the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers against it and he pressed his hand to his heart.  


* 

He did not see the Lady of Eryn Lasgalen again but his eyes often turned in the direction where Mirkwood lay, wondering about her fate. Once or twice, he heard news of Mirkwood, from passing Elves, on their way to the Grey Havens where Cirdan the Shipwright dwells, but none had news of her. Firohir never travelled to Mirkwood but he never relinquished the mallorn leaf he had found that morning and wore it on a chain around his neck forever more.  



End file.
